


Rainy Days

by limchi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Gavin Reed Needs a Hug, Gavin is Sad, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Nines wants to help, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24759079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limchi/pseuds/limchi
Summary: A long drag on the cigarette fills his lungs with smoke. He blows out a large puff that ends in a pathetic coughing fit. Gavin dislikes smoking, he once said, it’s a way of coping. The spots where his nails dig into skin each time his hand clenches, turn a little paler. The swollen and red eyes are clear evidence but a scan reveals traces of water and salt on Gavin's cheeks. He left his jacket inside, a poor choice given that winter lurks around the corner. His temperature is below average.Gavin is a mess in its truest definition. And Nines has never seen him cry.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 58
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

_“Men don’t cry!”_

Noises constrain his processor, bits and pieces of indistinct chatter. The squeaking of a chair grates on his ears as Gavin raises from it. The sound of clattering heels, an uneven _tick--tock-tick--tock_ , close to a broken clock, echoes through his system. Laughter in the background drowns much softer voices, remaining powerless against the volume of a ringing phone. Day to day commotion. Trifles, humans pay no mind to, too much for the capacity of their brain to handle at once.

His eyes flutter open, adjusting to their surroundings. Just in time to see Gavin rush past his desk. Just in time to spot the anomaly.

In a never-ending hunt for knowledge, Nines has developed an odd interest: overhearing conversations and cataloging claims for further investigation. He regards it less as prying and more as a sheer curiosity — a pastime activity to expand his view on the world. A collection in his mind, in the same way humans collect coins or stamps, with more emphasis on abstraction.

Most statements are easy to believe and require no exploration. While the statement _men don't cry_ has always raised suspicion, the discovery of its falsehood evokes surprise instead of joy.

He finds Gavin pacing up and down in an alley behind the station. A long drag on the cigarette fills his lungs with smoke. He blows out a large puff that ends in a pathetic coughing fit. Gavin dislikes smoking, he once said, it’s a way of coping. The spots where his nails dig into skin each time his hand clenches, turn a little paler. The swollen and red eyes are clear evidence. A scan reveals traces of water and salt on Gavin's cheeks. He left his jacket inside, a poor choice given that winter lurks around the corner. His temperature is below average. The man is a mess in its truest definition.

Following Gavin goes against what he is supposed to do. Nines is supposed to sit at his desk and work and give the man's constant mood swings no attention as they lead to puerile tantrums. Nines falls victim to them every so often. It is a struggle to differentiate between automatisms — striving for perfection and optimum results — or genuine care.

He's never seen Gavin cry and the sight brings his system to an unpleasant stutter, restricting his ability to move and speak.

Gavin freezes when he notices him, jaw hanging loose as he’s about to take another drag. He stares and stares and stares, until the flip switches and he turns away. He curls an arm around his waist.

"Leave," Gavin says, bringing the heel of his hand up to wipe the tears off.

A quick calculation unveils each potential approach as risky, regardless of his choice. Nines considers his options, finding it impossible to settle on one when all seem to end in failure.

Gavin’s patience runs short, which is fine, he isn’t known for patience of all things. Neither is he for crying. "I- I don't wanna talk about it. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never." His voice sounds thin and nasal. Difficult to recognize.

A message pops up on his HUD, warning him that Gavin's mood will directly influence their working performance. Nines disregards it, wishes his system would offer solutions rather than possibly induce conflict. Naive thinking has made him believe deviancy would end the fight between predetermined commands and emotions but life proves him wrong, time and again.

"Do you wish to talk to somebody else? Officer Chen, perhaps?"

"No." Gavin turns around, underlining his emotional state with heavy steps, trying too hard to conceal his unmissable sadness. He spits agitated words at Nines. "If you fuckin' dare to tell anyb—"

"—I would never, against your will." It silences Gavin, eliciting a subtle acknowledging nod. Nines shucks his jacket off and hands it to Gavin.

"I’m fine," Gavin sniffs. A lie, Nines deduces from the stray tear trailing down his cheek.

"Please do not ask me to neglect your emotional _and_ physical wellbeing. I can only ignore a limited amount of warning messages." Nines fails to give his words a scorning connotation, struggles to hide a hint of worry and affection amidst them. But Gavin doesn’t notice. He never does.

"You don't want the cigarette smell on your oh, so precious jacket and I can’t bother to wash it.”

"How adorable of you to regard odor an issue when your daily outbursts are much worse to endure."

Flicking the cigarette stub away, Gavin frowns at the ground. “Whatever man, just leave me alone.” The avoidance of conflict discloses his state of mind tragically as he fights back more tears.

Nines steps around Gavin and drapes the jacket over his shoulders. While he surpasses Gavin by a few inches in height, his build is much leaner and broader. He runs a hand down his arm. The workout sessions Gavin has been bugging him about have paid off. And yet, all the muscles are not enough to keep a reckless soul warm in the freezing cold.

"Take as much time as you require. Message me if you need anything. I will be waiting inside," Nines says. The circles he draws with his hand on Gavin’s back allow him to relax but Nines ruins it when he touches his wrist. A jerking motion interrupts the contact and sets a palpable tension. He reaches out again before the opportunity is lost, warm fingers meeting cold skin. It’s his own synth-skin that recedes and melts like ice.

A wish forms in his head, a wish of holding hands and rubbing them together until they rise to a tolerable temperature. Nines ttttakes them and keeps the hands between his a little longer and smiles at Gavin, and Gavin smiles back, a lopsided grin: a little sassy and sweet all the same. Nines brings one hand to his mouth and kisses each knuckle. The calloused skin against his lips causes another stutter, much more pleasant anddddddddddddd——

—the construction breaks. In his head, a mental image, nothing but an insignificant pre-construction enforced by a disordered system.

Reality hurts. A little.

He grabs Gavin’s wrist and guides it into the pockets of his jacket. “Do not let them freeze. Punching your enemies will become less satisfying if you are unable to feel the throbbing pain afterward,” he says.

“Punching you has never been fun, you don’t even flinch,” Gavin says as if Nines was referring to himself when he used the word enemy.

“Is that why you stopped months ago?”

The response comes delayed. A half-hearted shrug, a deflating demeanor. “...guess so.”

“Such benign behavior,” Nines tries to remedy the situation.

“Appreciate it. I'm lenient with you, 'cause you’re special.” The jest Gavin attempts to weave into the words is unconvincing at worst, comical at best, nose so full of snot that he can barely breathe.

“Lenient." The word brings a smile to his face. Or perhaps it’s the word special. Either way, he wishes to return the favor.

Gavin crouches down and tips his head against the wall. An upward glance. “Fuck, Nines, didn’t I ask you to leave?”

“Gavin. Despite your hollow hostility, I find your company pleasant.”

 _Hollow_ bothers Gavin, Nines can tell based on his expression, but the lack of a comment equals an admission.

“I don’t need your sentimental bullshit. You don’t have to cheer me up.” He puts another cigarette between his lips and raises his lighter but doesn’t roll the spark wheel. Although still visible, the tremble in his fingers has eased. A moment passes before he stuffs the cigarette back into the package and he wraps himself in the CyberLife jacket.

Nines squats down in front of Gavin and crosses his arms over his knees. “I’m relieved. I regard annoying you my forte rather than cheering you up.” It earns him the sound of a clicking tongue. Ah, nothing beats the satisfaction of immediate results.

“I have to see your face all day, do me a solid and leave,” Gavin says.

“Is my appearance irritating?”

For a second, the tone of Gavin’s voice changes and he raises a brow. Genuine interest? “Would it make any difference to you?”

Nines tilts his head, trying to decipher the meaning. “I’m curious.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Neither did your question answer mine.”

“You really do piss me off.” Gavin places his hand on Nines’ cheek and shoves him. It fails miserably, does nothing in terms of gaining space. He keeps it there, pressing against it with little strength.

“Appreciate it. I am lenient with you, as well.” Nines says.

“Lenient how? You’re much nicer to other people.”

“You are special.”

Gavin huffs. The trace of a lopsided grin appears on his face. _Special._ So that’s the magic word.

"Your hand," Nines says. It still rests on his face in a puny attempt to push him away, exposed to the freezing cold. He peels it off and digs both of his thumbs into the palm, massaging it for a couple of seconds. The difference in temperature causes the synth-skin around his fingertips to glitch away unbidden. Nines adores the contrasting feeling of cold and warmth, of dry skin and soft skin, of real and artificial. They complement each other, he thinks. “You should refrain from sitting on the ground.”

Gavin’s eyes focus on the touch, following the motions intently. His hand relaxes, an unspoken cue for Nines to continue. His fingers twitch, a yearning to move lingers in their tips. His thumb swipes along Nines’ hand, a gentle caress, not meant to last and after a long 7.32 seconds, the comment finally hits his brain. A sudden tug breaks what almost could’ve been called holding hands.

"Fuck, Nines, would you get off my dick, pretty please?”

"Do me the honor of acting prudent and I will return to my work station.”

It comes unexpected but Gavin rises, stuffs his hands into the pockets, and wraps the CyberLife jacket around his frame. Like a decent human being who knows how to take care of himself. Which puts Nines in a predicament because the situation demands honesty he intended to not give away.

Gavin looks down at him, waiting for a reaction, waiting for him to keep his promise.

“I do not want to leave you alone,” Nines admits, standing up. He believes it sounds about twenty percent less intrusive than _I wish to comfort you and stay by your side, emotionally and physically._ Apart from this, he lacks an answer to the word _why_ that is guaranteed to follow.

A faint smile tugs at Gavin’s lips. While the crying has stopped, sorrow remains engraved on his face. “I’m fine,” he says. It remains a lie, spoken with more confidence. “Five minutes. If I’m not back in five, you have permission to pester my ass for the rest of the day.”

“I would love that,” Nines says.

“We both know you’re gonna do it either way.”

Nines confirms it with a nod. Leaving Gavin in the alley gives rise to an odd feeling in his chest and his legs balk at the very idea of moving anywhere but closer. “Five minutes,” he repeats, “300 seconds.”

Back at his desk, he fixates on the timer on his HUD. Putting on a frown and staring at his monitor, he pretends to be working. A trick he learned from Gavin.

26 seconds over the five-minute time limit, Gavin returns. Nines hears him approaching, strides having regained their familiar rhythm. He allows him to smack the back of his head lightly.

Gavin has managed to make the CyberLife jacket disappear. A true magician. Walking past Nines, he brushes the back of his hand over Nines’ cheek, warm fingers serving as proof that he protected them from the cold. The touch is unlike him. Soft. Gentle. Nines expects him to pinch his cheek and waits to no avail. Instead, his system closes all documents he’s been working on. Without saving.

“Thanks,” Gavin says. The way he mumbles the word unveils how much courage it took to voice it.

Nines is lenient. “326,” he says.

The grin appearing on Gavin’s face is insincere but Nines doesn’t expect whatever brought him to the point of tears at work, to vanish in the timeframe of a lunch break. Unfortunately _faster, stronger, and more resilient_ is neither a panacea for sadness nor a formula for happiness. Comfort is a concept any human is far better at giving than Nines.

The introspection puts a strain on him. It’s physically impossible but his heart feels heavy. Heavier than in the morning. It hurts. He browses through his database in search of a fitting term for the emotional turmoil he’s been feeling. And because the letter E comes before the letter L, his system takes the liberty of misleading him.

_Empathy._

Yes, this must be empathy.


	2. Chapter 2

Gavin hasn’t shaved.

Nines dares to regard it as attractive, although the thought borders on inappropriate taking the situation into consideration. Gavin is never clean-shaven — quote, _figure out how it looks yourself_ , unquote, which led him to a pre-construction provoking a memory that ranks among the files he prefers to ignore — but the stubble appears about one millimeter longer than usual. The detail is of no importance as such, it catches Nines’ attention because he fails to determine if it stems from the wish to grow it out or from lack of care and wellbeing.

The longer Nines watches him, the more the latter option convinces him. The current pulsing through his system feels worse than a bullet ripping apart wires and other physical components as the notion of failure intrudes into his mind. Gavin isn’t any better than he was two days ago, he tears up when they interrogate a witness, and Nines has missed the signals until now. 

He struggles to determine what exactly triggers the man’s mood to plummet. It happens subtly. Gavin keeps his composure, gradually turns quieter, and lets Nines take over the conversation. He clears his throat. He shifts his weight. Balls his fists. Nibbles on his lower lip. 

“I’ll,” Gavin says, swallowing thickly and drawing all attention on him, “I’ll be right back. Gotta make a call.” The subpar excuse — lie — effortlessly fools the witness and ricochets off Nines with about the same ease. Designer furniture decorates the spacious living room they stand in. Its immaculate and high-quality appearance illustrates the stark contrast between Gavin and his surroundings. 

Nines isn’t supposed to observe Gavin. He is supposed to observe the witness, supposed to ascertain if the information the witness provides, adds up to the knowledge they already possess. But his gaze remains on Gavin even when he turns around and leaves the apartment. 

_Please do not walk off too far, I will be with you in a minute,_ he texts Gavin. To get the message across, he sends it nine times, on purpose, he tells himself, when in fact it is an accident. The read confirmation along with the _jfc, OKAY,_ message he receives a few seconds later, calms his mind.

The cold November air hits his skin as he dashes down the street. He played with the idea of acquiring a new jacket — since Gavin has been keeping his CyberLife jacket hostage for two days — then again, he has no particular need for warmth. A desire for it, perhaps. He doesn’t delve too deeply into the notion. All that matters is that his jacket is negligible: Gavin learned from his last embargo and wears his own.

Gavin sits on a set of stairs, a couple of blocks away from where they parked. Once again, a cigarette hangs loosely between two fingers, burning away in solitude and close to reaching the filter — ready to be tossed away. Ash drops from the tip. The hood of the jacket warms him and covers most of his face. His gaze fixates the ground, unfocused and in thought. 

“Gavin,” Nines says, “may I—”

Snapping back to reality, Gavin’s eyes dart up. He buries his free hand in his pocket, protecting it from the cold, like a responsible human, like Nines has asked him to, last time.

“—you may shut up,” Gavin growls. 

The words ring loud and clear in his ears. To any normal person, a cue to back off. To Nines an odd step in the right direction. Most people fail at deciphering the underlying nuances in Gavin's words and Nines takes a ridiculous amount of pride in succeeding. The absence of _fuck off_ or _leave_ implies he may stay. Gavin wants him to stay.

Snatching the last remains of the cigarette from Gavin's hand, Nines throws it away. A replacement lingers between the lips when he returns and it burns one, two flicks of the lighter later. The situation allows for a short glance at Gavin's face. The state of his mind combined with the cold color his cheeks red. He cried, is still crying, despite trying his best to conceal it. He grits his teeth together, both, at a loss for words and driven by the fear that embarrassing noises might leave him otherwise, Nines assumes. 

Nines despises the sight. Wishes to make it better, somehow, but empathy aids in contracting the feeling of sorrow. It spreads across his body, impeding his ability to act. _Empathy_. The word grinds along the inside of his skull. Empathy defines him as ‘more human’, and goes hand-in-hand with a myriad of unwanted side effects. A double-edged sword. 

Sitting next to Gavin, he follows the request and remains quiet, hands residing on his lap. He looks toward the sky, a thick layer of dark grey clouds blocking out any shade of blue lingering above. Chances of rain, 71%. 

“You don’t have to stay,” Gavin says. His voice sounds a little rougher than usual, a little lower. He takes a long drag from the cigarette and rubs the back of his hand across his face, wiping the tears away. “I need a couple of minutes and you know I’m a dick regardless of the mood I’m in. No hard feelings if you prefer to wait in the car.”

“What makes you believe your current mood inconveniences me?”

“People prefer sunshine and rainbows over fuckin’ clouds and rain.”

“A rainbow is the result of water and light meeting.”

“Whipping out words of wisdom, smartypants,” Gavin says, drawing a line of smoke in the air by waving his hand in the air. And then he gets silent, stuffs the cigarette back between his lips, slowly nodding to himself as if to reflect. “If you wanna be my sunshine, enlighten me and tell me how to deal with this shit,” he mumbles.

Nines' brows fall into a frown, frustration manifesting in his stomach over possessing no information about what _this shit_ is and, as a consequence, being unable to solve it. A different approach. Positioning his index finger and thumb against the tip of the cigarette, he flicks it. It breaks in half and the burning tip flies in an arch, dropping to the pavement and skipping like a stone on water.

"Great,” Gavin says, gaze following the 65 cents he lost, “I wasn’t talking about smoking.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“Okay. Countering asshole behavior with asshole behavior seems fair. No complaints.”

“Do not assume my impression of you aligns with your poor self-definition. It is not your choice to make if I regard you as an asshole or as a competent detective who needs to work on his social skills.” Met with indifference, Nines retrieves a 1.5-inch item from the pocket of his jeans and holds it between two fingers. He plays with it until indifference morphs into curiosity and Gavin tilts his head. “The same applies to the possible absence or presence of affection I feel towards you,” Nines says. He might have emphasized the word _presence_ unintentionally. “This is for you. It was a freebie.” A lie. Five dollars. A price he is willing to pay if it boosts Gavin’s mood. 

Gavin takes the metal pin and runs a finger along the edges, tracing the shape of the coffee cup. He raises it towards the sky and rotates it, watching the holographic layer glisten. For a second Nines considers his plan a success, as a faint grin appears on Gavin’s face but it falters.

“Cute,” Gavin says. A huff escapes him, covering up the subsequent sniffing. “But I'm too old to wear this.”

“Following this ridiculous logic, your age disqualifies you from crying as well.” 

“Maybe it does. I’m not proud of crying like a baby.”

“You are not too old to cry, Gavin. You neither have to be proud, nor ashamed of it,” Nines says, “I was devoid of emotions and awakened acquiring the entire scope of it from one day to the next. Humans expect me to fully function _like them and better_ bar their faults. If you believe I will condemn your tears and attached emotions and delight in them, I have to disappoint you. The concept of feeling overwhelmed or sad is not unbeknownst to me.” 

Gavin snorts. “You're good at hiding that behind a resting bitch face. I can’t tell what’s going on in your head. You never look like you’re emoting much,” he says. Nines struggles to hide that it stings. Luckily, Gavin notices. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it… like that.” 

Silence falls between them. Gavin uses the moment to stuff the pin into his pocket. 

Nines reaches out and, met with no hostility, carefully pulls Gavin’s hood back. The dark bags have become strikingly apparent. A hint of vulnerability glints in his eyes. Gavin shies away from revealing too much but it’s enough to understand. The tears have stopped. 

Torn between pain and joy over a fraction of trust, he leans forward and touches the tip of Gavin’s nose. “Your face is cold,” he says. Ironically, it makes Gavin freeze in place. Nines brushes his fingers across the rough texture of the stubble. He is unable to discern the difference between a three-day or five-day stubble, he never touched his face before, never had the courage to, too afraid of crossing boundaries, too afraid of being pushed away. The feeling is... pleasant. One thousand pre-constructions can’t compete with five seconds of reality. 

Gavin breaks the contact by tilting his head to the side. “It’s cold outside in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I would offer you my jacket for additional warmth. If I still had it.”

“Attention everyone, state of the art android can’t come up with another solution,” Gavin mocks. “Shit, I might just ask Connor for help.” The name that strikes a chord. Gavin fights against the sudden pinch grip on his nose. When he begs to be released, Nines shows mercy. 

“Apologies, state of the art android bluescreened for unknown reasons,” Nines deadpans. Something similar to a chuckle reaches his ears, causing his body to go rigid and his pump to skip a beat. 

“I’d never ask him for anything and you fuckin’ know that.”

“You never ask anybody for help. Unless you regard bringing you a coffee as help.”

“Helps me stay awake in the morning.”

“I know of other efficient methods.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Proper sleep, for example,” Nines says.

“You see the issue? If I showed up at work well-rested, you'd no longer bring me coffee.”

“I do not follow your logic, Detective. I would buy decaffeinated coffee.”

“Looks like you’re not bad at finding solutions after all,” Gavin heaves out a sigh, drumming two fidgety fingers on his knee. “This shit is hard to explain. Call me stupid and a hypocrite but sometimes I remember all my fuckups and the memories crash down on me like an avalanche. It doesn’t deserve your solace, so just stop, it’s not worth the time,” he says. “I guess fuckin’ up is something you can’t relate to.”

“Your sorrow does affect me, nevertheless.” Empathy. It all boils down to empathy. 

Gavin lifts his head, looks him in the eyes. The grave doubt in his features raises the question if the words were misunderstood. “Your appearance _is_ irritating, y’know.”

“How so?”

Gavin shrugs. Averts his gaze and directs it to the ground. He interlocks his fingers, digging nails into flesh with too much force, indentations forming on his skin where they push into. He shifts in his spot. It gives him an almost bashful appearance. “Too pretty,” Gavin mumbles.

Launching from the stairs, Nines turns on his heel and looks around, convinced that something hit him. His heart beats fast, a warning sign for oncoming danger, but no soul lingers behind them. His gaze shoots to Gavin, the desire to protect him stronger than ever. 

And Gavin— Gavin stares back at him in confusion. 

Empathy? No, it feels different.

“Damn, Nines,” Gavin says, the biggest shit-eating grin emerging on his face. Yes, a hint of mockery lies within but a smile is a smile. “Didn’t expect you to get flustered. You’re pretty,” he says, voice expressing confidence. “Doesn’t make you less of a pain in the ass, though.”

Nines scans the area, feeling a touch of embarrassment processing the results. _Flustered_. The only hazard is his own heart. He regains former composure and steps in front of Gavin. “A pain in the ass, how convenient,” he says crouching down, “in that case, I have no reputation to lose, all I can do is win." 

It earns him a pouty face to look at. 

“Is that positivity shit standard configuration?”

“If it makes a difference, I can assure you that staying by your side is not. It is a choice.”

“A terribmph—”

His hand stops the words from leaving. The stubble scratches across his fingers, contrasting the sensation of soft lips against his palm. Nines pays the error messages no attention, too engrossed in the way the lips brush over his skin as Gavin tries uttering a couple more words of nonsense.

"It is _my_ choice. One I do not view as a mistake. Regardless of your effort, the defiant attitude is endearing at best.” Nines pulls his hand back. The cold enveloping him feels disproportionate to the actual outside temperature. 

Gavin turns his head, as it’s the only way to avoid Nines’ eyes when the android squats right in front. Arms resting on his legs, his fists dangle in the air. 

Does he feel _too old_ to hold hands too? 

Nothing to lose.

"G—" Nines swallows the letter, in the hope that it can't be perceived as a nervous stutter. Yes, flustered. He follows up with an assertive, "Gavin," as an advanced warning. His index finger cautiously wedges into the closed hand, helping it ease up a little and allowing him to clasp around the tips of Gavin's fingers. The hand feels much softer than he remembers, much warmer.

A new nuance appears on Gavin’s face, too frail to overshadow the sadness but adding life into him despite the furrowed brows and tight lips. His cheeks have been red from the cold and the tears since Nines joined him. Now, something else determines the shade. 

Gavin yanks his hand away. “You don’t—” he begins and ends the sentence right there. He swallows, holds his breath, remains silent. 

Nines wonders what’s going on in his brain and reaches a plausible conclusion. _Flustered._ Return the favor tenfold.

“This desire to hold your hand is not limited to the times you are feeling sad,” Nines says. 

Gavin huffs, mockingly perhaps, or in disbelief. He shakes his head and digs his teeth into his lower lip, hampering the tremble by a smidge. A low-spoken _fuck_ escapes him, nothing more than a flimsy whisper. He inches forward, the weight of his head settling on Nines' shoulder. The clamor repulsion lapses into silence, drowned by quiet sobs and whimpers, a request for help, as the tears start falling. 

Nines places his hand on Gavin’s neck. The touch is kept to a minimum, mirroring what Gavin is willing to give and returning a little bit more. He suppresses the selfish urge to throw his arms around him, to embrace him, and whisper words of encouragement into his ear. For now, distraction is all he can offer. Replace the unpleasant memories with uplifting memories and ensure the new ones never become something Gavin loathes remembering. 


	3. Chapter 3

Gavin wears it. 

The enamel coffee pin decorates his jacket, sitting on the left breast pocket. The rainbow-colored layer coating the surface contrasts the dull brown leather and more importantly Gavin’s ever-prominent pout. 

Here’s the thing, though: saying that Nines dislikes the jacket or the pout would be a blatant lie, but they’re worth mentioning because the pin annihilates the antagonistic facade with ease, symbolically and literally. The pin improves the appearance — it suits Gavin and carries unintentional humor, especially while he’s holding a cup of coffee in his hand. It draws attention to him and Nines knows this man loves attention. 

So much for _being too old to wear something like this,_ Nines thinks. He resists the temptation to tease, his mission is mitigation not escalation and he will not ridicule Gavin for reevaluating his opinion about this matter.

Tina drills Gavin with questions during lunch break. Questions like _what_ and _when_ and _who_ , special emphasis on _who_. Her curiosity knows no bounds.

Straightening his back, Gavin puffs out his chest, and Nines wonders if he’d rather show off his pecs than the pin. Pride determines the stance and his voice sounds meek in comparison, words curt, and to the point. “A gift.” 

Tina grins a sly grin, telling she connected the dots and figured out The _Who_. She joins him at the table in the break room and props her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her palms. “It suits you.”

The approval fills Nines with joy. "I agree," he says.

“I like it.” Gavin brings the cup in his hand to his lips, taking a long sip. He looks fine. The broad smile manifesting on his face and the ugly laughter erupting from his lungs earlier confirm it as well. 

Is it genuine? Or a pretense? 

Nines’ aim is to prevent another breakdown, best-case scenario, or to be by Gavin’s side offering comfort when it happens, worst-case scenario. His priority is Gavin’s wellbeing, he wants to see the signs of upcoming discomfort, wants to see Gavin happy. Or happier, at the very least. 

Can an android provide a sufficient sense of happiness? 

“It’s cute,” Tina says and flicks Gavin’s nose. She spins around to leave and winks at Nines. 

Luckily, Gavin's self-absorption occupies his last brain cell and causes him to miss it. He smirks at Nines. It says, 'Don’t read too much into it’.

It's equivalent to asking someone not to think of a lemon and indirectly plaguing their every waking thought with lemons. Seeing the smile undoubtedly improves Nines’ mood and encourages him to reciprocate it. Yes, it makes his day brighter. A feeling blooms in his chest, not entirely new and only present when Gavin is around, growing the closer he gets to him.

 _Empathhhhhhhhh—_ [ERROR]

His system is defective. Wrong. Misleading. Isn’t it? 

"Gavin," Nines says, waiting for curious eyes to regard him. He folds his arms on the table, leaning to the side to reduce the distance between them. “You are a magician,” he whispers. 

Gavin places the cup down and nudges closer until their shoulders touch, squinting his eyes and returning the whisper. “You don’t believe in magic.” 

“But,” the whisper continues, adding a dramatic pause, “I believe in you.” 

Gavin puts an arm around his shoulder and tugs — almost affectionately, although the frown declares the intention of disguising the action as hostile. “That was awful,” he whispers back, huffing lightly before letting go, “and awful matches my personality, I let it slide.”

“I might not believe in supernatural occurrences as such but you do possess powers I was unaware of.” 

A moment of silence falls between them. Despite Gavin averting his eyes, the moment feels oddly relaxing and Nines attributes it to the lopsided grin on the other’s lips. He mirrors it, smiling to himself. 

Gavin plays with the lid of his cup, pressing the edges together to remove it and clicking it back in place, again and again, and with each click, the grin falters. The motions of his fingers become uncoordinated. Spacing out, lost in thought, within seconds.

A light bump to the shoulder brings Gavin back. 

“Hey,” Nines says, offering a gentle smile. 

Taking the final sip from his coffee, Gavin throws it in the direction of the bin, gloriously missing it by... a lot of inches. He picks it up quietly, pretending Nines has not seen the miscalculation. “Let’s go, sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” Nines says and follows.

“The resting-bitch-face won’t fool me any longer.” Gavin turns around and walks backward, theatrically placing his palms on his heart and covering the coffee pin. “It’s what’s _inside_ that counts,” he mocks and points at Nines, “and you brighten up my days.”

Plain and utter sarcasm clings to the words. And yet—

—something hits Nines’ shoulder, a sturdy, immobile object. He turns, spotting the culprit and glaring at it. The door frame. Miscalculation as a result of hearing Gavin’s words? 

A complacent expression adorns Gavin to top off the humiliation. “It’s cute but I’m worried you’re gonna combust once I cut out the sarcastic undercurrent,” he says.

 _Once_ , used as a conjunction. _As soon as_. _When_. A clear indication that it is likely to happen in the future. 

Nines huffs. He feigns composure, ignoring his elevated heartbeat. Gavin doesn’t back off, he’s waiting for it, cocking his head and looking up at Nines. He boasts with confidence, a charade of unwise smugness enveloping him.

It collapses with diminutive effort when Nines takes his hand in the hallway of the precinct. Gavin stares at it, mouth agape, no words coming out. So simple. So efficient.

 _Cute,_ Nines thinks, keeping the thought to himself and letting the hand go. 

* * *

[GAVIN REED.]

The last thought on his mind before he falls asleep and the first one when he wakes up to. Sounds romantic, right? It’s not. Not quite.

It’s past midnight when the gut-wrenching electric current of an incoming call rips him out of stasis. The crimson LED cuts through the darkness of his apartment, blinking, blinking, blinking, like an emergency alarm — the analogy is not too far off. The name on his HUD induces concern more than excitement. His heart beats fast. A case? Fowler would have informed him first, worrying Gavin might not hear his phone. 

“Gavin,” he says, the utterance of the name disrupting the silence. He hears the whirring of his own biocomponents as thirium rushes through the wires. He leaps out of bed, throwing the blanket to the floor and standing in the middle of his bedroom without a clear objective. And without receiving a reaction from the person on the other end. A whisper. “Please say something, Gavin.” 

A quiet sniff, a muffled sob. The sounds tear his core apart, pain shredding his insides like a syntax error; a missing bracket, a misspelled word in his programming. A ridiculously efficient method of rendering him inoperative.

"Sorry,” Gavin exhales. Slowly. Tremulously. “It’s late." Distress laces his voice.

"I’m unaffected by lack of sleep," is all he manages to get out as a means to fend off Gavin’s misplaced guilt.

"Nines I, I got your jacket," Gavin croaks and takes a moment to steady the tremble in his voice. "I washed it. Reeked a hell lot of cigarettes.”

“My jacket,” Nines speaks to himself. His voice is calm but his thoughts run havoc; self-accusation, fear, hurt, driving him insane, screaming at the back of his mind, failure, how did you not see it coming. “May I come over to pick it up?”

“Yeah. Don’t— don't complain about the mess, though.”

“I like the mess,” Nines reassures, "and unveiling the hidden treasures within. You find things you weren’t expecting to discover.” He hears the trace of a laugh, soft and doubtful. “I'll be with you in ten minutes, Gavin," he says but he’ll do it in eight, and is, in fact, already outside. He runs as fast as he can while calculating the quickest route although he has done it a thousand times in the past in case something were to happen to Gavin.

Seven minutes and forty-two seconds later harsh knocks on the door demand entry, one, two, three—a fourth knock to make sure—using the same vehemence as the artificial heart thudding in his chest. 

Gavin opens the door, eyes growing wide. The baggy sweatpants sits loosely on his hips, impending to slide down any second. Countless washing caused the color of the — what Nines assumes once rich navy — shirt to fade into a slate grey and, more evidently, has shrunken it to a size that accentuates Gavin’s chest. 

“Nines,” Gavin says, displaying a mixture of confusion and anger, “what the fuck happened?”

The comment strikes him as odd, in a factual, not a judgemental sense. Nines is not the one with a tear-stained face and red eyes with dark circles under them. 

“I mean— I thought you’d—” Gavin says, “don’t you have an umbrella?” 

Nines looks down on himself. His black dress shirt sticks to his skin, droplets of water drip from the curl of his hair. His slacks are soaked. Looking over his shoulder, he sees, hears, _feels_ the pelting rain he has been tuning out for the past ten minutes.

“It is raining,” Nines says.

“Are you alright?”

“Am I alright?”

Gavin taps his own temple and brushes a tear away given the opportunity that his hand is nearby. “Your light’s red.”

“My—” Nines stutters, “I, this is—” His fingers are freezing, but he refuses to waste another second and steps forward, cupping Gavin’s neck to pull him into an embrace. No complaint reaches his ear apart from a short, surprised outcry when his drenched body collides with Gavin. The warmth of their bodies nullifies the cold of his wet clothes. Arms wrap around his torso, uncharacteristically cautious at first, but like a wall shattering, the hands fist into the back of his shirt. 

Gavin breaks out crying. The rain dampens the noises of convulsive gasps and shallow sniffles that reignite a riot in Nines he is unwilling to abide. 

He tightens the embrace, whispers, "It's alright, Gavin,” raking his fingers through the hair. His nose brushes against Gavin’s cheek. “I'm here." Unbidden tears fall, as the overwhelming feeling of anguish and relief takes the upper hand, touching him in ways he deemed impossible. Nines wouldn’t mind staying like this until the rain seizes.

Gavin draws his head back, glancing up and averting his gaze, hiding the tears cascading down his face. “Really. God, this is the worst, I never would've thought we'd fuckin' cry together one day,” he says, breath hitching. “Didn't know you could,” the softest mumble, missing the usual poison. 

"Neither did I. I said you possess supernatural powers, remember?"

“Please don’t cry,” Gavin whispers against Nines’ chest. He eases the embrace, rubs his cheeks and his eyes, as the sound of the rain drowns a quiet _fuck_. A tug invites Nines into the apartment.

Yes. A mess. It fits Gavin’s M.O., he is not a clean freak without a disrupted mind but the state of the living room exceeds Nines’ imagination. Nothing resides at its designated place. Clothes scatter the floor. Headphones on the sofa. Remote control under the table. Open drawers. Empty take out boxes on the dining table, that is in dire need of a proper scrub. A bottle of water next to the TV, bottles everywhere. A layer of dust. And amidst it all, he spots his CyberLife jacket, draped over the back of the sofa, pristine and all, shining like the holy grail in the darkness. 

This is not the treasure he intended to discover.

“Here,” Gavin says.

Nines has no time to react. Pajama pants and a shirt hit his head. A little short but it'll fit regardless.

“You’re dripping on my floor,” Gavin mumbles, putting on a dry shirt. He points at a door across the room. “I don't have anything else your size. Bathroom’s over there, toss your stuff in the washing machine.” An unspoken invitation to stay longer. The night, possibly?

Nines nods and disappears. The bathroom is tidy. A towel on the floor is about all Nines can complain about. He throws his wet clothes into the washing machine and slips into the pajamas. A glance into the mirror. Crying did not tinge his cheeks or made his eyes puffy. He looks the same and yet so very different. A little tabby cat embroidery decorates his left chest pocket. Unfamiliar. Odd? Cute. Casual. The most casual he's ever been. He likes it.

Will it make Gavin smile?

Gavin doesn't see it. Not right away. He hunches on the sofa, next to a pillow and the neglected headphones. He digs his palms into his eyes, trying to stop more tears in vain. "God, I fucking hate this. I don't even understand _why_ I'm crying this time, but I feel horrible."

"This feeling doesn't require justification," Nines says and tastes the irony on his tongue for his inability to explain why he feels this crushing not-empathy for Gavin.

 _Why_ is not important, not in this case.

Nines sits next to him and rubs his back, fingers twitching and aching to give more than they do. The urge to throw himself against Gavin to hold him is unbearable to suppress.

"Just so you know, I hate crying in front of you," Gavin croaks.

"In front of me specifically?"

"In front of anybody."

"Why did you call me?" Nines asks in earnest curiosity.

A huff. Gavin sits up, the struggle for composure visible in his features. "The way you look or walk or speak, it's all so fuckin’ calculated, so fuckin’ flawless. So machine-like."

Nines tilts his head, precisely two degrees to the left, hand never leaving the back it comforts. "It comes naturally to me. It's easier than pretending to be something I'm not."

"I know," Gavin says. "It’s ironic. Nothing about you radiates ray-of-sunshine energy, it's not the type of person you are and if I asked anybody to confirm it you know what they'd say? _You're right, I don't fuckin’ see it._ "

"What do you consider ironic about this?"

"Can’t say for sure. It’s either that they don't see it. Or that I do,” Gavin says. “Crying sucks less when you’re around. I called you 'cause your fancy words and awkward behavior I used to loathe actually cheer me up. You’re my fuckin’ sunshine.”

Ah. Words draining all restraint from him, Nines drops to the right, head landing on Gavin’s shoulder. His arm wraps around Gavin's back. He feels the warmth of his body, listens to the beat of his heart. He wouldn’t mind staying like this the entire night. 

Gavin massages his palm, easing the tension. “Wow, no sarcasm and you didn’t combust."

“That would be irresponsible.”

“Right? I still need you.” Gavin sighs, in defeat. “I’d be hella bored at work without you.” 

Nines came to comfort Gavin, but perhaps he needs his company just as much. He winds his second arm around Gavin and digs his nose into the flesh of his neck. The pulse pounds fast. As fast as his own heart. “I have no intention of leaving you.” And it skips a beat.

The weight of Gavin’s head leans against his. Fingertips meet his cheek, a gentle caress, moving up and carding through his hair, a feeling too good to be real but this is not one of his many pre-constructions. Gavin lets out an audible sigh. No, Gavin hums. Nines sighed. Gavin hummed because Nines sighed. Because Gavin caught him sighing softly. 

“A sigh amuses you. Your simplicity amazes me.”

“My touch provoked it,” Gavin says.

When Nines releases the tight grip and draws back to look at Gavin’s face, a smirk awaits him. Teasing. Superior to all the tears he has seen. "You should get some rest or it will get to your head." Nines fails — deliberately? — to give his words the necessary serious tone. He allows Gavin to celebrate his victory. Every verbal jab Gavin delivers, serves as a proof of his gradually improving state of mind.

Rising from the sofa, Nines offers his hand but receives a broad grin in return. 

“Suits you,” Gavin says, pointing at the pajamas. 

A downward glance. It does make Gavin happy. “It seems I am but a tool for your amusement.”

“I mean it. Learn to take a compliment, sunshine.” 

Sunshine. The word affects Nines.

He takes Gavin’s wrist and drags him to the bedroom. The man complies. Unusual but not unwanted. What does he have to change to establish this kind of behavior? He squeezes the hand before Gavin sits on his bed and clutches the frame. Nines idles in front of him, shifting his weight as uncertainty about how to proceed creeps up his back. It’s the simple situations that crush his confidence. Simple situations that involve Gavin, specifically.

“Would you,” Gavin shakes his head, “shit, this is weird as fuck, right?”

“I will wait in the living room. If you are feeling unwell, do not hesitate to—”

“—you’re sounding like a butler. You're not my personal assistant. Sorry," he says, waving a dismissive hand, "you can go home if you want, I’m feeling better.”

On the nightstand, Nines spots the enamel coffee pin. Does it function as a lucky charm? “ _Better_ does not suffice. I will stay until you are fine.”

"Yeah? In that case, I find myself in a predicament."

"Do you not believe in a quick recovery?"

"I do. I know I'll be fine in a couple of days." Gavin shrugs, a habit of trying to hide something that’s in plain sight. "That's the issue."

“I—” Nines says. What catches him off guard is not the understanding itself but having missed the cue. "Your predicament is— you would like me to,” the flutter in his chest hinders his words, for the first time he struggles, “ _stay_ stay?"

"I don’t want you to move in right away, but," Gavin mumbles, gaze dropping to the wooden floor. He grabs Nines' hand, a slight tremble defining the touch. Cautiously, as if the word fragile decorated it. Inept, as if he's never done it before. Sincere, as if all their wishes and desires matched. "Living in denial ain't no fun."

Nines’ unoccupied hand moves on its own accord, finds itself on Gavin's cheek, thumb brushing across the stubble. The uttering of his name causes Gavin to raise his head. Brows bumping together, half-lidded eyes watch Nines. A silent plea lingers on those parted lips.

Nines might have to reappraise the whole _empathy_ issue. ASAP. A resemblance, yes, but how foolish Nines has been for believing this was empathy.

"I agree," Nines whispers. To prove to which extent he agrees and to see if Gavin wouldn't mind acting upon it, he bends forward until their lips are a breath away. Nines stops shortly to eliminate the remaining doubt, watching eyes close before he goes through with his decision. An act of unexpected purity. Of showing trust and vulnerability. 

He leans in, lips pressing on Gavin's, and despite knowing what awaited him, despite being the one who initiated it, a quiet noise between a sigh and a hum escapes Nines. Gavin melts into the kiss, and squeezes his hand, clasps his fingers around it as if it means the world to him. The kiss is soft, much softer than both prefer to admit on an average day. Then again, they refuse to change anything about it.

Until they break the kiss. It's abundantly clear that breaking the kiss is highly disagreeable.

A hand on his neck pulls him down and they slump into the sheets, lips crushing together. It tastes of hunger and greed, delivering a special kind of satisfaction for accomplishing something that has been overdue for a painfully long time. It’s tender and languid, devoted and caring, and everything else Gavin pretends not to be. Nothing could have prepared Nines for what Gavin’s mouth and tongue make him feel. For how much it makes him feel and how easily the kiss afflicts more than 90 percent of his processor capacity. 

No words are shared when their lips part but Nines comprehends the gist of the implicit pledge in the way these eyes refuse to stray and in the way fingers dance over his neck and cheek. 

They crawl under the blanket, the comforting sensation of safety seeping into him and amplifying when Gavin huddles against him. 

Nines isn’t supposed to lie in Gavin’s bed. They aren't supposed to— no, he doesn’t give a shit about all the impractical recommendations his system keeps suggesting. He wants this, he wants Gavin.

He holds Gavin in his arms, presses him against his chest. Lingering in silence, they listen to the soothing pitter-patter of rain against the window. They both know that Nines is not a cure for the weight on Gavin’s mind and soul, but if the proximity and affection provide the slightest improvement, Nines is willing to give it.

The arm around Nines' waist clutches tightly as if to claim him. Gavin takes a deep breath and eases more into the embrace when he exhales. His nose nuzzles the neck, as lips brush across it ever so gingerly. Gavin reaches up aimlessly, placing his hand on Nines' cheek and thumb relaxing on the LED. 

"Sunshine," Gavin murmurs.

Nines plants a chaste kiss on his lips. And two or three more, uncertain if he’ll get the chance again. Each one lasts a little longer. “Rest now,” Nines whispers between kisses, “I will be here in the morning.” Each one draws Gavin closer and amplifies the insistence of the touch. “I will be here to hold you.”

* * *

Sunbeams cast through the window. Yesterday's rain has left glistening water drops on the glass surface that could easily be mistaken for morning dew. Outside, the city of Detroit begins to rise from its slumber; the commotion of humans and androids alike going about their daily business perceivable as background noise. 

A sole ray falls on Gavin's face, too weak to wake him, strong enough to highlight his peaceful expression. His hand rests on Nines’ waist, clutching the pajama even in his sleep, in dire need of proximity. Soft and slow breathing brings his chest to a steady rise and fall. The ruffled hair gives him an innocuous appearance. 

Nines lays his hand on Gavin’s. Fear surges through his body the moment the man shuffles and opens his eyes. Does Gavin still want any of this after the night has passed? Is Nines supposed to leave without a word and never talk about this again? Gavin rolls on his back, away from Nines, and rubs his face. After a soft exhale, his hands find comfort on his belly and he turns his head to the side, regarding Nines. 

“Hey,” Gavin mutters, voice weary, “you never make that face when I arrive at work.”

 _That face_ is the smile Nines becomes aware of and can’t suppress while watching Gavin despite the nagging doubts. “You tend to miss my morning smile because you arrive thirteen minutes late on average.”

“Shit, there’s a timeframe?” Gavin raises his voice, containing a certain undertone. A serious question?

“If you desire seeing it more frequently, I might consider adding an extra timeframe for you.”

Gavin rolls his eyes. And he grins. “Have I been oblivious to prior flirt attempts or did you become more obvious?”

“Both.” Nines crawls closer, hesitation dictating his movements. Pale fingers skim across Gavin’s arm. “May I,” he begins, _stay with you, hold you, rake my fingers through your hair, interlace our hands, touch you, kiss your lips and the scar on your face, run a thumb across the stubble,_ within a split second an excessive amount of options unfolds—

“—yes.”

Yes.

Gavin distributes raw honesty in moderation and Nines will not question it, too afraid that the timeframe closes and they back-pedal to vague talking. He brushes the unruly curl back and brings one hand to his lips, planting a kiss to the palm. Positioning himself next to Gavin, he rests his head on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Gavin says, lips curling into a smile. It’s genuine. For the first time, Nines is convinced of it.

“Gavin,” he says, “I will ameliorate your past.”

A soft huff. “How? That's impossible.”

“It is not,” Nines says, raising his head and holding Gavin’s gaze. “As long as I remain a part of your present, I will become a part of your past and your future.”

Seconds pass, one, two, three long seconds that Gavin uses to stare. Stare. Four, five, he looks like he’s thinking, processing, contemplating, and comes to a conclusion after six point eight seconds of silence.

“Damn, Nines. You know, maybe,” Gavin rolls to the side, stuffs one hand under his head. A pout graces his face. “Maybe I wouldn’t mind considering _this_ ,” he gestures between them, “my everyday life instead of a constant what-if-scenario in my head.”

And maybe Nines has considered _this_ a thousand times through pre-constructions too. Maybe their wishes aren’t so different after all. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Nines takes his time to reply. Six point eight seconds, to be precise, although he knew his answer in less than zero point one seconds. “Perhaps,” he says. “Perhaps I would like that as well."

An arm and a leg tangle around his frame, bringing their bodies closer. 

“I can’t recall the exact moment you stole my heart but shit, Nines,” Gavin says and brings their lips together like a vow. He looks happy. Or a little happier, at least.

A starting point. Scratch the _maybe_ and _perhaps_ \- they will move forward. Together.

“I surrender, please fuckin’ keep it,” Gavin says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! 💙


End file.
